When My Heart Joins the Thousand(20)

My hands tremble slightly as I undo the clasp of my bra, and it drops to the floor. His pupils dilate, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows. “Wow.” His voice comes out soft and breathless. I’m not sure what’s so amazing. They’re just breasts. All girls have them.

“They’re small,” I remark.

He blinks. “Huh?”

“My tits.”

“They’re not. Small, I mean.”

I look down. “It’s just a fact.”

“No, they’re perfect. It’s just . . .” A short, nervous chuckle. “It’s a little surreal hearing you say ‘tits.’ It’s like hearing Mr. Spock say ‘motherfucker’ or something.”

I shrug.

“They’re beautiful.” His voice softens. “You’re beautiful.”

The words make me uncomfortable, make me feel naked in a way that just taking off my bra didn’t. He shouldn’t say things like that.

The air in the motel room is cool against my skin. Goose bumps rise on my arms and breasts, and my chest heaves as I struggle to control my breathing. I don’t know if I am aroused, exactly, but I am very aware of my body, even more than usual. I feel the roughness of the carpet under my stockinged feet, the weight of my bones, and the whisper of blood rushing through my brain, my heart. My breathing quickens, and pressure builds inside my chest.

My hands are still trembling. Am I afraid?

I’m not worried about the mechanics of it, which are fairly simple. I tried it with my fingers last night, and while there was some stinging, the pain was no worse than bumping into a chair in the darkness on the way to the bathroom. No—I’m afraid that I’ll say something or do something that will ruin this, and he’ll turn away from me in disgust. Or that I’ll panic.

But I’m not going to change my mind. Not now.

I stand there, naked from the waist up, and say, “Undress.”

He fiddles with the first button of his shirt. Then he starts to reach for the lamp cord, to turn off the light.

“Don’t,” I say.

He freezes.

“I need to see what I’m doing.”

The muscles of his throat move as he swallows. “Okay.”

Uncertainty steals over me, the network of wires and strings pulling tight inside my body, and I wonder—again—if he doesn’t want this, after all. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’s disappointed by my boyishly flat chest or my knobby collarbones. I’ve never thought much about my body and whether someone might consider it attractive, but looking at it objectively, there isn’t much of interest.

Then I look down at his pants and see the bulge straining against them.

For a few seconds I just stare. A tremor runs through me. Not fear. Excitement.

It’s proof. He’s not doing this just because I asked it of him, or because he feels sorry for me. He wants this. He wants me.

My own breathing suddenly sounds very loud and unsteady.

I notice him staring at my breasts. He notices me noticing and looks away. “You want to touch them,” I say.

“Yeah.” His voice comes out thick and hoarse, like he has a sore throat.

My head is buzzing. I’m suddenly very warm. “Go ahead.”

“You’re sure?”

I nod.

He gulps, raises his hands. Lowers them. Then takes a deep breath and raises them again.

The first touch is like jumping into a cold pool on a hot summer day. For a few seconds, it’s unbearable, and then the shock fades, and I’m floating. I watch, holding my breath, as his fingertips graze my breast. His thumb brushes over one nipple, then rubs in a slow circle, and there’s a pleasant flutter somewhere deep inside my body.

I’m off-balance, my head spinning. Already, my nervous system is starting to overload. I need to pull back.

I grip his wrists and push his hands down. He clutches the coverlet. I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, finding my center of control. The world steadies around me, and my eyes open.

“Lie down,” I say, “on your back.”

He stretches out on the bed and lies stiffly, arms at his sides, legs together. I put my hand on his crotch.

His hips jerk, his mouth opens, and his eyes go soft and glassy. “Holy shit,” he blurts, then bites his lip. “Sorry.”

I pull back. “Did I hurt you.”

“No. Just surprised me. It—it felt good.”

I reach for the top button of his shirt. Immediately he tenses up. He starts to lift his hands. “Hands on the bed,” I order, breathless. He clenches his fists on the sheets again. I undo another button.

“Wait,” he blurts out. “I don’t have any condoms.”

“I brought one.” I fumble through the pocket of my hoodie, which is draped over a chair, and pull out the small foil-wrapped packet that I purchased from a convenience store earlier. “You don’t have a latex allergy, do you.”

He shakes his head.

“Good.” I lay the packet on the coverlet and reach out to undo another button.

“H-hang on. Let’s not rush this.”

I freeze, not quite touching him. “What’s wrong,” I ask.

The muscles of his face tighten. “Nothing.”

I don’t move. Am I doing something bad? Lightly—very lightly—I touch his thigh. I brush my finger over the tiny metal tongue of his zipper, then tug it down a half inch. He remains perfectly still. I tug it down a little farther, and his eyes slip shut. A sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead.